


A Veil Of Light And Laughter

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-22 17:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19675045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: In a world were magic is soft and sweet and quiet, Anne uses her charms to heal, to strengthen, to improve things. That is, until the king takes everything she holds dear from her.An AU were Anne is a witch, or sort of. No happy end 😢 sorry





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this more than a year ago, accidentally deleted half a chapter, put it in the 'on hold' folder on my laptop, and found it again like, last week 😂 I'll try and finish it, and post the part that's already finished

**♠️**

**May 1536**

**Tower of London, London**

The Thames is near enough to fill her chambers with moist, thick fog, and it reminds her of her return to England, of icy nights and dull grey light, muted and blurry and blueish. And somehow, she feels the same way she had all those years ago – hopeless and frightened both in contemplation of a dull life or her near death. At least she now knows what awaits her, and, even if it is her own execution, it is better than not knowing what will become of her.

Her life will end, it is as simple as that. There is nothing she can do but sit by the window and sing and weave, until her fingers bleed and colour the nets in her hands crimson and brown, while her maids think she is praying. She has only ever used her magic for good, to heal and protect and improve, and she is not even sure if one can use this kind of charms for evil doings.

They have only taught her white magic, harmless things, and apart from Louise, no one has ever mentioned the darkness one could catch and bind into a cloth. Maybe… maybe she can. Maybe she will. She will think about it, she decides, and goes back to her weaving.

♠️

> _…a shirt, wherein I will weave magic and runes so that, old though he be, no steel nor venom shall ever hurt him.” And she took silk from the South lands, the fibres of herbs that she alone knew, and some of her hair and that of her daughters, and she taught them magic songs, so, as they wove, they sang, and the spells were worked back and forth through the shirt until they filled it throughout…  
> _

**May 1517**

**Château d'Amboise, Indre-et-Loire**

Sunrays fall through the thick glass of the windows, and the air outside is heavy with the scent of the first pure white blossoms on the trees that frame the river and filled with the happy voices of young people enjoying the first warm days of the year, but Anne’s small hands are cold and the pearls of her necklace too heavy for her slender neck. She is a big girl, almost twelve, and she has been in this situation before, she had been sent to the low lands four years ago, then to France, to serve queen Mary and, after the old king’s death mere months after her arrival, queen Claude. They all had liked her, even adored her, but this situation is new to her.

She has been summoned not by her mistress, the queen, but by the unofficial rulers of France – the duchess of Angoulême, who is the mother of the king, and the duchess of Alençon, his sister – and she does not know the reason, nor why they have sent for her right now. Wondering whether she has done something wrong, displeased the queen, or if they merely need one of the queen’s maids-of-honour, she enters the chamber one of the servants has led her to, trying to look like she isn’t afraid of the two powerful women within, who hold France in their hands and own and share the king’s ear.

The room is light and airy, with tall windows framed by ivory drapes, the walls covered in silken tapestries, and a dozen or more ladies sitting on cream coloured plush pillows and soft rugs on the floor or on comfortable chairs with dogs, embroidery or books in their laps and hands, gossiping, giggling about a joke, or telling a story. The atmosphere is carefree and relaxed, and Anne’s nerves start to calm down, when the Duchess of Alençon spots her, and waves her over to where she is sitting on the floor, her mother on a cushioned bench behind her.

Seeing princess Renée in the younger duchess’ lap removes Anne’s tension at once. The little girl adores her, and she loves to play with her when queen Claude visits her sister. Maybe they have only sent for her because the princess wants to see her, she thinks, and sinks into a deep curtesy.

Both duchesses smile at her, the older softly and motherly, the younger brightly and radiant. “Mistress Anne, welcome to our gathering. Please, make yourself comfortable.” The duchess of Angoulême pats the light blue cushion next to her.

“I am happy to have been invited, your Graces.”, the girl replies, still unsure of how she shall act around the princess and her relatives. The duchess of Alençon waves her formal address aside, laughing again. “Oh, you don’t have to address us by our titles, little one, you can call us by our Christian names when there’s only the four of us. Do you know why we sent for you?”

“No, I do not, your Grace… Marguerite.” Anne blushes, embarrassed. Normally she has an answer for every question, even if it is an impudent reply or a guess, but she really has no idea what they could want from her, and so she lowers her gaze to the yellow embroidery at the hem of her pale blue dress and tries to hide her flushed cheeks. “You are always so witty, my dear, and foxy and sharp.”, Marguerite smiles, and Anne wants to sink into the ground, because the older duchess – Louise, her name is Louise – is staring at her with sharp eyes and contacted eyebrows, like a raven.

“You may not believe my daughter, but she is right. There is something about you, child, something old and mysterious, that should not be awoken.” The old duchess looks at her again, her face stern and filled with curiosity, but then it softens, her motherly attitude returns, and she pats the place next to her on the bench again. “Have you ever heard the legend of the Danish queen Aslaug?” The girl shakes her head, and so Marguerite explains. “She knew magic and runes, and she wove a shirt of silk and herbs and songs and her own hair and gave it to her husband. He wore it in battle, and no one could kill or hurt him whenever he wore it.”

Anne listens with wide eyes, because she loves nothing more than stories and legends, and when Louise takes her small, delicate hands in her own and draws a symbol, older than the kingdom she rules, onto both wrists with charcoal, Anne looks at their hands with real interest. A sheer, colourless, almost invisible glow starts to spread over her skin once Louise has finished the rune, crawling over her palms and covering her fingers, stopping at the hem of her sleeves.

Raising her hands into the air, she marvels at the shimmer. “Now hold them like this.”, Louise touches her elbows, gently guiding her, “and catch something.” The girl frowns at the older woman, hesitating, but when Marguerite nods at a group of young ladies that are singing a ballad and whispers “Try to take the music.”, she stands up and reaches into the air, starring in amazement at the silvery waves that starts to appear in the middle of the room and floats around the group of humming girls. Anne carefully steps over cushions, skirts and pets, until she is standing in front of the mist-coloured air. She reaches up and gently, carefully, wraps her fingers around the cloud of silvery sparks.

When she draws it closer to herself, it changes, the flimsy feeling disappears and the colour intensifies, until she holds a small and frail bundle of silken threads in her hand. Marguerite sees it, and grins to herself, while Anne starts to collect more and more threads from the air, until her little hands are full.

**August 1517**

**Château de Blois, Indre-et-Loire**

The French summer is at its peak, the heat unbearable, the days too long and bright, the nights too short and too full of heavy wine and greasy food. On days like these she longs for home, for the cooler English weather, the lush green of the trees surrounding Hever Castle, and the shadows underneath them. The only way to bear the heat is to sit in the dark, on the bleak stone tiles of the room she shares with another girl, wearing nothing but her thinnest chemise, with her heavy hair braided and pinned up to keep it from sticking to the sweaty skin of her neck, while her companion lays in the bed they shared, with a wet rag pressed to her face.

A knock on the door startles her, and, ignoring the groan coming from the bed, she stands up and opens it a crack. The young servant on the other side of it is as sweaty and worn as she is, and his voice is barely a whisper, his throat dry, his clothes too thick and stiff for this time of the year. “The duchess of Alençon wants to see you, Mistress Boleyn. She tells you to bring your work with you.” Her heart flutters, and she nods nervously, before she shuts the door and throws open her chest.

♠️

A short time later, now dressed properly in thin mauve coloured silk, and carrying the parcel she has hidden in her trunk under her clothes, she makes her way to the small garden the page leads her to, ready to show her tutor the finished piece of cloth she has made.

Marguerite sits on the lithic brim of a fountain in the shadows some wisteria bushes throw onto the slate tiles that cover the ground, her dark hair falling loosely over her back, her pale fingers idly playing with the water in the basin behind her, sweat covers her brow like little pearls.

Anne has spent months collecting strings, always thinking about what she would need, what she could use, and has knotted and woven them together whilst singing and humming to herself. Now the veil is four feet long and wide, thinner than air, and shimmering like the stars on a moonless night, pale lilac and dark blue and freshly polished silver. Anne carefully draws the runes on her palms, before she unwraps the handkerchief that covers the cloth, and drapes it over Marguerite’s lap.

The duchess cautiously inspects it, pulls on some knots, testing the strength of them. When she looks up at Anne, she smiles. “You did not ruin it, and it is only your first one.” Anne’s heart falls into her knees, and her head becomes light and airy. Louise has told her that she had to be gentle and careful, that one wrong move could ruin the work of days or weeks, and that the tiniest mistake could destroy it. She has always painted her hands before she worked, has never dared to touch it with her naked skin, has made sure that every knot was perfect, every string strong and she has woven her prayers into it.

Now Marguerite leans forward curiously. “What did you use, if I may ask?”. The girl blushes, but points to Marguerite’s sparkling eyes. “The violet light of your eyes.” Her own, dark and deep as always, look down into her lap. “The golden shimmer of the letters in the books you showed me. The thin, pale ink I use when I write my family. The silver of the moon, and the scent of lavender with the scent of old books, and the scratching sound of a quill.”

Marguerite’s smile has vanished, and her eyes are glued to the cloth in her lap. A bit breathless, she asks: “The materials fit together quite well, but - what does it do?”. With a deep sigh, Anne answers. “It helps you learn. It helps with concentration and makes it easier to remember things. I want to know so much, and I hope that this will work.” Her brows are furrowed and her eyes focused on the cloth in her hands.

This makes Marguerite smile again, and more so. “Oh chérie, it will work, I am sure of it. You put so much effort into it, and so much thought. Ma mère was right, you are special. Most girls aren’t able to make a piece like this, because they are too reckless or thoughtless, but you – you are different. Now, how about we try it, hm?” Anxious, the younger girl nods, and lets her drape the cloth over her hair and shoulders like a veil, before she rubs the runes on her palms away. The shimmer on her hands disappears – as does the cloth. Slowly, softly, like a gentle touch, it clings to her skin like small waves of cool fog, before it sinks into her skin.

Anne looks at her shoulders, who have drunken in the fabric like a rag absorbing spilled milk, in awe. It worked. It _worked_. She worked _magic_.

♠️


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now a teenager, Anne returns to England in order to marry her cousin, leaving her mentors and friends behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not much is known about Anne's early live and her time in France, so I used some OCs as her friends

**♠️**

**December 1521**

**Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Yvelines**

The girls around her are giggling and whispering in hushed tones, their voices both muted and shrill at the same time. Christmas is just around the corner, and the ladies-in-waiting and maids-of-honour of queen Claude are ready to celebrate, excitement rolling off of them like rain at the mere thought of gifts and pretty dresses and even prettier boys to dance with during the feasts. And in the middle of the small bulk of pink taffeta and blushing cheeks and fair hair sits Anne.

Quiet like always, she furrows her brow, sucks her lower lip into her mouth, stretches her slender arm – and catches the gilded thread that is floating above the group like a cloud of mist and stardust. Wrapping it around her fingers, she sits down again, and plaits it into the small, square handkerchief she is working on.

When she takes the blooming colour of her friend’s lips, Nicole grins at her in a way Anne knows all too well, and she buries the fabric in the salmon pink folds of her dress. “No.” Her voice is stern, but there is a twinkle in her dark eyes, and Nicole starts laughing. “Oh, come on, sweetheart, I just want to look. I’m not going to ‘borrow’ it, I’m not like Madeleine.”

“You’re not like Madeleine, you’re worse, my dear.” Madeleine, who has been resting her head on another girl’s shoulder, probably dreaming about some young knight or a handsome lord or, maybe, cake, looks up, confusion written all over her round face. “What? I heard my name, are you talking about me? Or about food?” Her two friends laugh at her perplexed expression, while Madeleine sighs in false exasperation. Anne smirks, but shows her friends her newest project nevertheless.

Both girls draw in a breath, while Charlotte, the oldest of the small circle of friends, leans over Anne’s shoulder to get a better look at the handkerchief. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”, she whispers, her eyes wide, and Anne quietly thanks her. She is used to people staring at the tissues she creates, and she loves to the admiration in the other girls’ eyes. She tries to be modest, but sometimes her pride takes over. Grinning, she spreads it over her lap and tells them what it is made of and for.

“A love charm... to make sure the English lads notice me. I will need a husband after all. So, I used the colour of Nicole’s lips – that’s the darker, reddish colour here”, her fingertips gently caress the venetian red yarn in its nest of pink and silver, “and Madeleine’s rosy cheeks and golden locks.” She grins, but grows serious again. “Your giggles and whispers. The scent of the roses and peonies we wove into our hair last summer. I kept it until now. Some birdsong, and the fast rhythm of our hearts when we dance.”

Her voice breaks. “The sweetness of my tears, when my father summoned me back to England.” A single sob escapes her, and the other girls immediately throw their arms around her, burying her in their warmth and the smell of their hair. “I will miss you all so much. What if we never see each other again?”, she snivels. Not even the comforting humming and mumbling of her friends can mend her broken heart.

♠️

**January 1522**

**The English Channel, some miles before the Port of Dover**

The raging water beneath her is as dark and dull and grey as the sky and her ash grey cloak, the expression on her face icier than the cold wind and the tiny droplets that hit her on her place on the bow of the small vessel, her skin as smooth and pale as the bone coloured cliffs, and she takes the colours and the cold, and puts them in the embroidered pouch on her girdle. Her fingertips longingly caress the pieces of cloth hidden in one of the pockets she had sewn into the bag, and the salt on her cheeks and lips was both from the spray of the sea and her own tears.

She intends to use the handkerchief she has made with her friends, the one made of pink mesh with a golden shimmer, to make herself more appealing to the man her father will marry her to. She hopes that he will be French or at least a diplomat, so that she can return to the French court and her friends, and it wouldn’t be too risky for her to work, because the young nobles she had met so far had sisters and cousins that made charms for them, too.

One of the sailors’ shouts something behind her, and she rubs the charcoal on her wrists into her skin, until the runes stop working. The other cloth in her bag… she won’t use it. If hasn’t been made for magic, but for remembrance. The laughter of her friends, the sparkle in her mentor’s eyes, the smells and sounds of the court of her youth are sweet lilac and pale pink with spots of gold and silver. She won’t use it but keep it with her. And one day, she will see them again.

♠️

**March 1522**

**York Palace, London**

Green, green, green. Everything is green, from the darkness of the fir twigs pinned to the walls, to the sparkling emerald rings, hanging heavily on the slender fingers of the ladies of the court, to the peacock feathers on some lord’s hat, to the sea coloured velvet falling from the wooden castle in swirls and waves like a river, to the beautiful eyes of her sister. At least she has her, her pretty, sweet, open Mary, who won’t leave her alone.

She’s as grateful as she is nervous, now that she is here, at the English court, in a crowd of strangers without her friends by her side. Charlotte would have some motherly advice for her, Madeleine would dance and comment on all the handsome men she sees and tattle around until Anne is calm enough to _think_ again, and Nicole, sharp and fashionable and cruel as she can be, would comment on every old cut and all the faded fabrics, mock the posture of this girl over there and laugh about the clumsiness of the gentlemen that try to flirt with her.

Her heart flutters when she notices a young lady, her hair as golden and curly, her shoulders as soft and round as Madelaine’s, but the girl turns around – her eyes, her nose, her complexion aren’t her friend’s, and Anne wants to cry and to scream and to rip out her hair, because her girlfriends are across the sea and she won’t see them again for _years_.

Of course, she doesn’t scream and wail, she smiles, until the muscles in her face clench, ignoring Mary’s concerned looks. She wants to ask her what it was like for her, to return from France, to be thrown into the snake pit of another court, but she doesn’t, because she doesn’t want her sister to know of her fears, and because they are not that close. Mary’s six years her senior and was always too old, too mature to play with her younger and wilder siblings, and they didn’t spend much time together in France, too.

They had different friends, ran in different circles, stayed away from each other, the smart little girl that lived in the libraries and the young woman that was the golden centre of every ball and pageant. Maybe they would have been friends, had they stayed in France a bit longer. Now her sister is married, a dutiful lady-in-waiting of the queen, and good friends with people she would have called boring years ago, people that prefer the quiet country live, while Anne has sharpened her tongue and found her love for dancing.

But while Mary is as golden and bright as a summer’s day, and Anne is dark and mysterious like the night, but while their stark contrasts haven’t faded, they have each other’s back. And so Mary stands next to her, greeting all the people she knows, introducing them to her intelligent younger sister, who has only arrived from France, who is to be a maid-of-honour to queen Catherine, who was tutored by the famous duchess Marguerite herself, she tells them, pride lacing her words, and holds her hand. She will wrap everyone around her little finger, Mary whispers to her friends, and they smile and nod, their necks stiff with politeness.

If only it were that easy, if only she weren’t that frightened.

Her palms start to sweat when a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Turning around, she recognises Jane, a shy girl her age, who will dance in the pageant for the Château Vert, too. They know each other, they had to practice their steps for the dance and play together, and when she sees the uncertainty in the other girl’s face, when she notices how her pale fingers tremble, how hesitant she moves, Anne realises that the maiden in front of her is just as nervous and shy as she is right now.

They are both lost, she thinks, when Jane asks her something about the costumes they are to wear, her quiet voice faltering, and she smiles at her encouragingly. Maybe she’s not as alone as she thought.

♠️

The old chess pieces, carved from ebony and ivory, the battered book of hours, bound in powder blue linen, the scent of periwinkles and lilies that clings to Jane and lingers in the air even after she’s gone – they all find their way into Anne’s pouch, wound into small wreaths and wrapped in silk, hidden beneath her clothes and books and the double bottom of the trunk she brought with her from France.

Still, she needs more. The piece in her lap is too thin, too transparent, she’ll need to weave something stronger, something with more strength into it, to make it steadier. She’s taken her own laugh, the sparkling of her dark eyes, the fast clicking of her heels on the stone tiles of her chamber when she practices the steps and jumps of a fast dance, but it’s still not strong enough. _She_ is not strong enough. Anne is lonely, and worried, and frightened, because what if it will stay like this?

This is not what she planned. She needs a group of friends, no matter how small it may be, around her, and now she is on her own, has no one but her sister and Jane, a grey mouse who melts into the background. She wanted to stay in France, with her girls, marry a nice French noble, and never really change her life, she wanted them to always be like that, young, carefree, together. If only she could go back there, and destroy every clock, have them dance and laugh and whisper for eternity.

But it’s impossible. And so she sits here, in cold dark England, all alone in her chamber, and weaves a piece of cloth that’ll make her new friend more open, more confident, more _visible_. Jane deserves it. She is such a sweet girl, so grateful for her friendliness and her attention, alone at court without her sisters, and she’s a good friend, loyal, eager to help her, and she can keep a secret.

Not this secret, of course. Not yet –

The door flies open, and she shoves the pouch into the sea of silk and velvet that threatens to spill from the chest at the end of her bed, hides it under a cloak of pale lavender taffeta. Her heart thunders and her knees are weak as she rubs the charcoal from her hands, praying that whoever dares to disturb her here, in the sanctuary of her chamber, hasn’t seen anything.

Turning around, she prepares to reprimand the intruder, to hiss like a cat and throw that person out of _her_ chamber, the chamber she has been given as one of the queen’s maids, but she is only meet with a pair of feet dangling from _her_ bed. The intruder has plopped down on the duvet as if it belonged to her, and Anne can only see ruffled petticoats and skinny legs, clad in embroidered stockings, coming out of the mountain of embroidered copper red brocade that must be a skirt.

“Oh. My. God. My feet are _killing_ me. I’m going to find the person that invented heels, and stab them with a pair, right in the heart.”, the girl exclaims, dead serious, before she props herself up on her elbows, and eyes Anne like _she_ is the intruder. “And you are?” Her eyes are greenish and sharp, almost as sharp as her face, Anne notices, as she puts her hands on her hips and states her name and position, her chin raised high, but her proud façade falters when the girl on the bed laughs – a deep, hoarse sound, that doesn’t quite match the petite build, the pointed, fox-like face, the wild beauty of this dainty girl.

“You’re little Annie. Annie from Hever castle, who could outrun everyone.” When she notices the confusion displayed in Anne’s features, she stands up from the bed and walks over to her. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Meg, Margaret Wyatt of Allington. We used to play together in the mud when we were children.” She looks her up and down, eyes the silvery shade of her dress, the French hood, the pearls on her neck.

“You’re a real lady now, all elegant, I see.” Meg’s bashfulness surprises her. “Oh, I’m still the same, just like you. Always wild and never a friend of pinning your hair up.” They both grin, Meg touches her loose, unruly curls, and, just like a thousand times before, Anne helps her old friend brush and braid her hair in silence. How could she forget the wild red hair and scratched knees and mud stained face of her oldest friend? They haven’t seen each other for almost a decade, but maybe…

“So, we are to share a room.” Meg’s grin is still the same, too broad to be pretty and not a bit of falseness in it. “Nell will stay here, too, but she’s really boring, so I’m glad you’re here. The nights can be long, especially when there’s no one to talk to. And you’ll have to meet Bree Wingfield again, did you know that she got married? And Tom and…” Grabbing Anne’s hand, she makes her way to the door. “You won’t recognise them, they changed so much.”

And when Meg drags her out into the hallway to introduce her to some people, Anne feels like maybe, only maybe, living in England again won’t be so bad.

♠️

**March 1522** ****

**York Palace, London** ****

“So, you’re that French girl everyone’s talking about.”, a loud voice states from above. Carefully closing the book in her lap, slow enough to show that she doesn’t care about the person in front of her, that she won’t jump like a dog, with her finger between the pages to mark the last sentence she read, ready to resume her reading as soon as the lady in front of her stops bothering her, she looks up.

The woman standing before her is plump and round, dressed in dark emerald green velvet with peacocks dancing on her bodice and skirt, her chubby fingers, encrusted heavily with gold and jade and malachite, are resting on her broad hips and her foot taps on the floor with impatience. “I’m just as English as you are, but yes, I spent some years in France.” Anne throws her hair over her shoulder and rises from her seat. The other girl is taller than her, but she raises her chin nevertheless, straightens her back, and cocks her head the way Nicole did when confronted with a rival.

She doesn’t smile, she bares her teeth, ready to make the other regret ever approaching her, if she dares insult her. She’s a mercer’s great-granddaughter, a whore’s sister, and spent half her life in France, but she won’t let anyone embarrass her in front of others, she won’t be ashamed of anything. Her sister made mistakes, but she’s a good person, her father worked hard to get them their good positions at court, and her time in France is to be envied.

But right now, they are at war with France and some ladies won’t look at her when they pass her in the hallway, and someone even hissed “Traitor, she’s surely spying for the French.” in her direction mere days ago, and so she is ready to tell this woman that she’s loyal to England, when the other starts speaking again. “What’s it like? Someone said that they dance all the time, and their clothes must be so beautiful. What did you wear? Silk, and gold? I heard that the sun shines all the time!”

Baffled by the waterfall of questions coming out of the other lady’s mouth, Anne only stares at her. “Oh, I didn’t even tell you my name! I’m Anne Gainsford, but your name is Anne, too, is it not? Well, you can call me Nan, everyone does!” Nan grabs her hand and flops down on the bench Anne sat on, pulling her down with her.

“I’m sorry if I talk too much, but I always wanted to go to France, and now, with the war… it’s not very likely I’ll ever see it myself, but you where there, so you could tell be about it.“, she rambles on, breathless and too fast, a broad smile splitting her face in half. Her face falls when Anne merely stares, gaping at her like a fish, and the confidence her every move displayed fades from her. “I’m sorry, I should leave you to your reading…”, she mumbles, and moves to stand up.

Something about her, maybe the softness of her face or the golden hair or the way her hands cut through the air like a pair of playful birds, reminds Anne of Madeleine, and so she smiles, a soft one this time. “I was merely surprised, that’s all.” She pats the cushion, gestures for Nan to sit down again. She closes her eyes and says, her voice barely a whisper, the other girl’s eyes glued to her lips. “It was always sunny, and even the tiniest chambers were always filled with light…”

♠️

Anne doesn’t know what it is, but there is something about another girl in the group that surrounds the duchess of Suffolk – she still thinks of her as the dowager queen of France, sometimes – that catches her eye, and she lets her gaze sweep over her, slowly, trying find out more about her.

The pale pink fabric of her gown is of middling quality, but the cut is rather fashionable, as is her hood, and the pearls and silver thread that curl around the square neckline of her dress make her light grey eyes shine against the backdrop of her chestnut brown curls. Her hands are pale and slender, and she holds herself straight, her movements full of elegance and grace. There’s a book of poems lying in her lap, and her voice flows over in waves to where Anne stands, dulcet and sweet.

This girl could have been at the French court, she thinks, she would have fit right in. But of course, this other maiden wasn’t in France, she knows, the only English girls at the court of king Francis were Mary and her, exotic things, curiosities in a strange country, both here and there.

For some time, they watch each other, eying the books and embroidery hoops in the other’s hand, examining the other’s clothes and the jewellery they paired them with, observing the other’s movements and behaviour, each of them trying to look more impressive and elegant than the other as they pit their strength against the other. Every court is like a nest of vipers, one deadlier than the other, and only the cleverest and funniest and prettiest can win the favour of their sovereigns.

The other girl has of course no change against Anne, who spent years training to become a jewel of the court, who has the advance of a good education, who wove dozens upon dozens of charms made of the softness of delicate, milk-white fingers and pale rose petals flying over her head, surfing on the wind and stars piercing a smooth black night sky and cats with coats of black silk stretching their slender limbs in the gold of the sun.

And she plays the harp, better than anyone else she knows, or so she was told a thousand times. She knows that she won their silent battle when the duchess asks her to play some of the newest songs from France, and her fingers and voice climb through the highest notes and the most complicated twists like mist curling around a slender birch’s trunk. She knows that she won when she sees the awestruck faces of her audience. She knows that she won when she notices the admiration of the other girl, shining brightly in her eyes.

Her smile is as sharp as ice and proud, and she thinks that this is what Nicole must feel like every time she makes another girl feel inferior, with power rushing through her veins and pulsing in her ears – and then her cheeks relax, her grin softens. She’s here to become a favourite, to become the most elegant and clever and fashionable lady at court, but she is not here to humiliate others.

She doesn’t look at the other girl when she makes her way over to her, nor when she sits down next to her, close enough for their elbows to brush against each other, and arranges her skirts around her gracefully like a blossoming flower in the sun. Both look into their laps, Anne busily picking on her embroidery she’s working on, the other maiden opening her book again, searching for the side she was on before she was enchanted by Anne’s voice. Neither acknowledges the other, and Anne has to gather all of her courage to lean over and whisper “I’m Anne.”.

The other girl swallows, her eyebrows twitch, unsure of how to react, and then she murmurs “Your harp-playing is very… good.”

“Thank you. Do you play, too?”, Anne whispers back.

“No, but… I would like to. Maybe you – erm, could teach me?”. There’s a shade of hope in the other lady’s voice, a rosy hue on her cheeks, and Anne grins to herself. Her answer is a soft murmur. “I would like that. What’s your name?”

“I- thank you. And I’m Elizabeth Browne.” They don’t look at each other, and so Anne smiles to herself without risking to look like a fool. She just won a battle, and she just won a new friend.

♠️

Her heart is beating in the rhythm of the drums, just as fast and breathless as the airy melody floating over their heads, and her limbs move like water flowing down a river, mirroring the other dancers that fill the grand hall and swirl around each other like waves in a storm battered lake.

Most of the other guests wear green, a thousand different shades – the shadows in the heart of the woods, the glinting of emeralds when they catch the sun, the dancing leaves of seaweed in calm lakes, the lush shimmer of grass during a summer storm – and when she squints, the people around her look like the sea, green and blue, every wave a different colour, and she remembers those summer nights that were too short and too hot, when they would sneak out of the castle after dark and go down to the Loire.

For a moment, she dreams of these good old times, of how Madeleine smuggled a bottle of wine from the kitchen and shared it with them, how they laid on the banks of the river, telling each other their secrets, how Nicole took of her shoes and danced barefoot, first in the sand and then in the water.

In the end, they all landed in the river, fooled around and splashed water at each other, stifling their breathless giggles when they heard someone in the bushes – and almost died from laughter when Charlotte appeared between the leaves, her nightgown shining brightly in the moonlight against the backdrop of the dark woods, and ran straight into the current, before she reprimanded them for going without telling her.

It’s a happy memory, if not the most happy, but when she remembers these nights and looks around her, when she sees Jane, pale and shy and reserved, who seems to glow like a ray of silky moonlight when she’s dancing, Meg who’s shaking her wild red hair and grins from ear to ear, Nan who is a passionate dancer and moves her big body with more grace than most of the ladies around her, Elizabeth smirking mysteriously as a handsome gentleman twirls her around and ivy leaves fall from her hair, and her sister, beautiful and golden and teasing her husband, she realises that she is just as happy now as she was in France.

♠️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicole (*1506), Madeleine (*1505) and Charlotte (*1503), original characters, maids-of-honour to queen Claude and friends of AnneMargaret Wyatt (*1506), lady-in-waiting and childhood friend to Anne Boleyn, sister to Thomas Wyatt  
> Jane Boleyn, nee Parker (*1505)  
> Elizabeth Browne (*1502)


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne falls in love with Henry Percy. Catherine Carey (Anne’s niece) is born. We don’t know for sure, when exactly Catherine Carey was born (probably in 1524), so I set the scene in October, because of the ~aesthetic~. George discovers Anne’s secret. I watched “The Other Boleyn Girl” some years ago, with all those scenes in front of the breathtakingly beautiful Great Chalfield Manor and somehow the half faded memories of Anne and Henry getting ready for a hunt in that courtyard made me think that Hever had a big courtyard as well… so imagine a bigger courtyard, please 😊

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Ireland is a beautiful country, but for Anne, who had spent about eight years at the French court and in the company of Marguerite de Navarre, and had never seen it, it must have seemed like a wasteland at the end of the world.

**♠️**

**June 1522**

**York Palace, London**

“So, what does he look like? And don’t pretend you do not know who I am talking about!” Meg giggles and wiggles her eyebrows at her friend while Anne rolls her eyes in exasperation. “You’ve seen Master Butler often enough to know what he looks like, my dear – brown hair, brown eyes, with a crippled leg and as boring as a man can be.” She sighs, definitely not content with her father’s decision.

She knows that she is no beauty, she is too slender, too dark, too melancholic, and too different from the fair-haired, bright eyed, buxom girls that fill the court with their singsong voices and swaying steps, but she is clever and funny, or so she has been told, and she is an exotic thing in England with her French manners and her education that can rival most men’s. Her father is ambitious, and wants her to make a good match, but he does not see her skills and what she can do.

If she were to choose a husband, she would use the skills she had developed in France to seduce a powerful man. She could be the wife of a royal duke, or she could make a prince du sang fall in love with her easily enough, she had seen some other students of Marguerite do it, and her mentor had told her that she was better at creating charms than most girls her age.

She wouldn’t even have to use her magic, since some English earls and French dukes are interested in her already, but no, her father has to marry her of to some dull relative, just so that he can lay claim to an earldom in the Irish Badlands for her. She will waste away there, she is sure of it, and her father will mourn her, and realise that he has made a wrong decision.

Meg’s hand, right in front of her face, pulls her from her thoughts. “No, silly, not your betrothed. The young gentleman you’ve been daydreaming about the whole time. You didn’t even object when I stole all of your marzipan only minutes ago, because you were humming like a woman in love.” “YOU DID WHAT?!” Anne yells, letting her embroidery hoop fall to the ground and lounges at her friend, who squeals.

“I didn’t eat it. God, Anne, you really are serious about your candy.”, she giggles. “Now, tell me about your beloved, and I will give it back to you.” She raises her eyebrows. “Is he handsome? Rich? Does he have a title?” “His eyes are blue. Now give back my marzipan, and no one gets hurt.” Anne tries to sound threatening, but a small smile creps onto her face, as she falls onto the pale blue embroidered comforter that covers the bed she shares with Meg and another girl.

“His eyes are blue like forget-me-nots, and his smile makes my body go limb, and the way he looks at me makes me fell so- so warm. Oh Meg – I think I’m in love.” She covers her face with her hands, and sighs. “And he’s betrothed, just like I am.”

**April 1523**

**St Peter’s Church, near Hever, Kent**

Her laughter floats through the air, light and delicate and a bit breathless, but she doesn’t care who might hear her. Anne is young and beautiful and in love. And Henry is in love with her. Everything is perfect, and within an hour, they will be married in secret, bound to one another for life and – if possible – for eternity. For the first time since her departure from France she isn’t afraid of the future.

They will have a manor of their own, he had promised, far away from his annoying father, and they will have children, a dozen sons and daughters with her dark hair and his cerulean eyes. When she closes her eyes, she can see them, their brown curls bouncing around small faces with delicate features, dancing around her and the blossoming bushes that grow between the few weathered gravestones on the empty churchyard.

She will teach them French, so that they, when they travel to France to visit Nicole, Madelaine and Charlotte, Duchess Louise and her former mentor Marguerite, will be able to talk to them and to listen to what they have to tell them. Her daughters will learn how to weave magic fabrics, and one day, she will even tell her Henry about her charms. He will understand, because he is so clever, and because he loves her.

Humming contently to herself, she looks around, but no one is there, and so she draws the runes on her hands and reaches into her pouch, to take out her newest work, a veil of bright blue and pale green and polished silver, made of the silvery blue brocade of her wedding dress, the feeling of his warm fingers intertwined with hers, the light falling through the glass window of the church that depicts the Virgin Mary, the scent of the wrath she’s wearing – periwinkles and forget-me-nots and cornflowers, petals in the colour of the Virgin – and the fluttering of her heart when she thinks of her Henry. It will bring Happiness, for the both of them.

When a dark figure appears near the gate, clearly looking for her, she quickly puts the cloth away, smudges the runes, until the glow on her fingers disappears, and pulls her sleeves over her wrists, to hide the stains on her skin. Smiling brightly, she waves, and bounces a bit on her heels, before she walks over to the figure hidden in the shadows beneath the trees.

Her Henry, here at last. But, Henry is taller, and not as plump as the boy that comes towards her now. Her smile freezes on her face. “Are you, erm, Mistress Anne? Anne Boleyn? Master Percy sends me.”, he explains nervously and fidgets with one of the rings on his fingers. “Why isn’t he here? Has something happened?” The boy swallows thickly and can’t look her in the eye, and Anne’s heart fills with dread. “Is everything alright? Is my Henry… is he well?”

The plague, the sweat… the names of countless illnesses and the images of some horrible accidents she has witnessed cross her mind. Grasping the hands of the boy in her own, she draws a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Tell me, is he alright? Please, tell me.” “I’m so sorry, milady, but Master Percy… he won’t come.”, he mutters, “He’s well, but… he won’t marry you, he said. He’s going to marry Mistress Talbot.”

“This… this can’t be true. He loves me. He loves me. Not that Talbot girl. He loves me.” Petals, deep blue and delicate, are raining from her wrath, dancing around them, and when she fells tears dripping onto their hands, she realises that she is crying. The messenger looks at her concerned and frightened, but he holds her hand when she sits down on a tombstone and starts sobbing uncontrollably, feeling numb and cold. The stains on her wrists are washed away by her tears.

**October 1524**

**Aldenham, Hertfordshire**

Screams fill the air, long and eerie and full of pain, haunting her wherever she goes. Her senses have heightened since her time in France, and she smells the blood and the anticipation in the air, feels it tingling in her fingers and under her ribs, and without even thinking about it, without even wanting to, she runs her fingertips through the ash of the fireplace, and begins drawing on her hands.

It is a comfort to her, in these dangerous hours, a comfort she has not allowed herself too often since her return to England, but she needs it now, Mary needs it. Her hands fly through the air, grabbing the pale screams of her sister, the nervous pacing of her brother-in-law and the luminous crimson of the blood-soaked linen that one of the maids carries to the laundry room, and when the milk faced servant girl hurries back to Lady Carey’s chambers, she steps into the pantry, pressing her back flush against the cool stones between the full shelves.

Singing the same songs her sister has sung to her swollen belly for the last few weeks, she begins weaving. The smell of the dark apples that lay on a trunk, gleaming red in the last light, joins the yarn in her hand, and when she ducks through the low backdoor, her gaze falls on the black earth of the kitchen garden. The blood, the apples and the earth are dark in her hands, glistering with fear and magic, and she hides them under her skirts when she makes her way to the chamber she sleeps in.

She had collected her sister’s songs and her mother’s prayers and sang and prayed while she made the knots and tied the strings together. Now, she weaves, until the yarn in her hands takes the shape of a small blanket, barely big enough to cover her lap, carefully checking every knot and every seam, until she is satisfied. The size does not matter, as long as the fabric is strong and flawless.

After going over the knots and ties one last time, she folds it neatly, and shoves it into her bodice, between the stiff material of her kirtle and the softer wool of her dress, checks the runes on her palms, and goes back to the birthing chamber. The screaming has stopped, and now Anne is worried.

♠️

Mary looks like she is going to explode. Her entire body is tense, her fingers digging into Elizabeth Boleyn’ arm, her panting filling the low-ceilinged room. Her golden hair is clinging to her face and neck, her face glistening and wet, and the air is thick with sweat and blood and fear. Anne opens one of the windows, thankful for the cool evening breeze streaming through the murky chamber with the smoke darkened wood panelling.

Another scream rips through the thick air, and then her sister opens her beautiful green eyes for a moment and smiles at her over her swollen belly between two contractions, but then her face twists in pain, and her lips turn white. Anne puts her arm around her sister’s shoulders and keeps her upright, not sure what she could do if there are complications, or how she will use the blanket without the midwife calling her a witch.

And then Lady Boleyn’s muffled prayers and the midwife’s barked commands are drowned out by the irritated wail of a new-born.

♠️

Hours later, when Mary is soundly asleep in her bed and Anne sits in front of the fireplace with a bundle of velvet skin and golden locks wrapped in an off-white shawl embroidered with red tendrils and black roses in her arms, she finally calms down. The birth and afterbirth have been difficult, but her sister is well, if tired, thanks to the other piece she had made, the tiny handkerchief that she had quietly pressed against her sister’s back when he midwife hadn’t looked, and her niece…

The babe is plump and round, with chubby cheeks and dimpled elbows, and her grumpy reaction to the world and her family have been emphasized by her loud and angry screeching. Now she is a calm and heavy weight in her aunt’s arms, her fingers moving slightly and her brow furrowing as she dreams. Anne smiles at the sweet angel in her lap, and, moving as little as possible and trying not to wake her, she reaches for the charcoal pen on the small table next to her.

This time, she looks over her shoulder, to the bed, but Mary is sleeping, her mother and the maids having retired long ago, and the men are drunk from celebrating the birth, and so, with a sigh, she leans back into the armchair and draws the runes slowly. Her eyelids are heavy, but she wants to do it before the sun rises. Shifting the sleeping child a bit, she pulls out the blanket and places it in her lap. It is warm under her fingers, black and white and at the same time, and gleaming in a dark reddish light.

Pleased with her work, Anne awkwardly takes her niece out of the shawl to lay her down on the blanket. “Nothing will hurt you, my love. No sickness will ever touch you, and you will not die in the birthing bed either.”, she whispers to the child, and watches with a relieved smile and tired eyes as the blanket sinks into the babe’s naked skin.

**September 1525**

**Hever Castle, Kent**

The horse stomps and rolls its eyes, nervous and frightened by the group of young men gathered in the courtyard, laughing loudly and throwing lecherous glances at her, and Anne cannot just stand there. Sighing in exasperation, she walks over and puts a calming hand on the animal’s nose, liking the silken feeling of the soft fur and the warm breath that is blown into her palm when she offers it an apple.

Its whiskers tremble, and, after glancing over her shoulder to make sure that the gentlemen that her brother calls friends aren’t looking at her, but at the scullery maid, who is plump and pretty and wearing a gown cut lower than hers, she pulls out the fabric she has made for this.

When her brother had told her of this hunt, and that George Brooke had challenged him to a race, she had worried about him. Brooke hated the Boleyn’s, and she knew that he would try to humiliate her brother, but a race through the woods is dangerous, and someone could get hurt or die, and so she had started to weave.

The rustling of dry leaves and the fur of a shy fox that had tried to steal the cheese, bread and ham she had brought with her when she wandered through the forest, as well as the chestnut shimmer of the horse she was currently petting. The scent of the tack room and the golden light that dappled the lush green moss between the trees. The raw, metallic smell that filled the pantry after every hunt, and the dark stains on the wooden kitchen table, where the cook cut the meat for their meals.

Green and orange and brown and as warm as a living creature’s skin, it lays hidden in her bag, waiting to be used. She takes it out and shoves it underneath the saddle. It takes longer than normally. Animals are different, Marguerite had told her, and she knows it from experience – back in France, they had woven a blanket for Madelaine’s sick dog, and she had sat with her and Nicole for what felt like hours, waiting for the charm to work.

This time, it doesn’t take as long, the horse’s fur is shorter than a wind hound’s, but Anne prays nevertheless for it to work faster, starring at the piece that is sticking out from under the saddlecloth.

“Anne.” George is standing next to her suddenly, startling her. Alarmed, she looks at where his friends stand, but none of them is looking at them. George’s shoulders hide her – and her magic – from their view. Her brother stars at the shimmering end of the cloth that is still visible, and then at her. “What are you doing here?” His breath stinks of ale, and his eyes are slightly unfocused.

“It… it’s nothing. I’m doing nothing. I just… I wanted to calm down your horse, she seemed so frightened, and I wanted…” “Shut up.” His angrily hissed response puts an end to her rambling. He grabs her arm, his eyes burning now. His drunkenness has disappeared completely, and his voice is dead serious. “I know what you did. I saw it in France, once, with some kitchen maid. It was… a love charm, or something like that.” Anne slowly breathes out. He knows about magic, and he hadn’t called her a witch so far.

“You’re so reckless, Anne. What if one of my friends had seen? Most of them are drunk, but they are still sober enough to recognise witchcraft.” He whispers to her, and slowly releases her arm, looking seriously concerned now. “They will burn you, if you’re not carefully with your… whatever this is.” Pointing at the saddle, he says loudly and gruff: “Thank you, sweet Annie, for checking the cinch. You’re such a wonderful sister, am I right, Brooke?” Brooke yells something crude but unintelligible.

The other young men start laughing, and Tom comes over to them. George places himself in front of the saddle, leaning heavily against the horse pretending to steady himself, hiding the cloth. “Anne. I had hoped to see you here. How are you?” Tom’s eyes are soft and full of feelings she does not want to think about, and her false smile does not reach her own, but he does not notice.

“I am quite well, thank you for asking. How are you? How is Liz?” At the mention of his wife his face falls, and he grumbles, “She’s well, and our boy is, too. And you’re still unmarried? You’ll end up a spinster after all, unless you wed that Irish cousin of yours.” Her smile only broadens at his words. “Better than to be married to the wrong man.”, she whispers. The horse’s skin has finally absorbed the cloth, she can see from her point of view, and so she curtsies mockingly deep to him, kisses her brother’s cheek, and skips away.

So Tom resents her still for rejecting him all those years ago. She shrugs her shoulders. She had been young and living in France when he had wed Elizabeth, and when he had proposed marriage to her, he had been married still, and had offered to abandon his wife and young son for her, something she would never forgive him. What kind of man would leave not only his wedded wife, but also his child for another? Anne wouldn’t build a family on the remnants of another woman’s ruined life, at least not if she could help it.

Sighing, she watches as the hunting party leaves the courtyard. She needn’t worry, but she still does. Her brother’s horse won’t be the fastest today – fairness is important, after all – but it won’t misstep or stumble on the uneven wild paths, and that is enough. George will be save. But a woman is never save, she knows, especially an unmarried one, and sometimes not even giving your husband a son could secure your position.

♠️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Percy (*1502), heir to the earl of Northumberland  
> Mary Carey, nee Boleyn (*1499), sister to Anne Boleyn  
> Elizabeth Boleyn (*1480), mother to Mary, Anne and George Boleyn  
> Catherine Carey (*1524), daughter to Mary Carey  
> George Boleyn (*1504), brother to Anne Boleyn  
> Thomas Wyatt (*1503), poet and neighbour of the Boleyn family  
> Elizabeth Wyatt, nee Brooke (*1503), wife to Thomas Wyatt  
> Thomas Wyatt the younger (*1521), son to Thomas and Elizabeth Wyatt  
> George Brooke (*1497), heir to the baron of Cobham, brother to Elizabeth Wyatt
> 
> https://threespires.files.wordpress.com/2013/06/st-peters-4739.jpg?w=1250&h=  
> https://outoftheloopdotcom.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/p5260098.jpg  
> https://outoftheloopdotcom.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/p5260105.jpg  
> https://out-of-the-loop.com/walks-by-county/kent/a-kentish-eden/  
> https://fineartamerica.com/featured/hever-castle-garden-path-jeffrey-peterson.html


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boleyn siblings on a cold winters night. Henry notices Anne for the first time. Something about Jane Parker. Fun Fact: Henry VIII ordered a pair of football boots back in 1526, so it would have been possible for George Boleyn and William Carey to play football 😊

**♠️**

**December 1525**

**Hever Castle, Kent**

Mary suppresses a sigh as she leans back into her cushioned chair, propping her swollen feet up on a stool. At least little Catherine has stopped wailing, thanks to her aunt, who gently rocks the bassinet in the darkest corner of the small hall. Once Anne is sure that the child is sleeping soundly, she sits down on the bench in front of the fireplace, stretching her legs and putting her toes on the open fireplace’s grate to warm them, her nimble fingers running through the fur of the old wind hound that’s dozing on the hearth.

Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she can still feel the French sun shining down on her, can feel it burning on her skin and the way it heats up her dark hair. In this moment, though, all she could feel was the iciness of the stone floor, creeping through the thick carpets and under her skirts, clawing into her legs and numbing her feet and hands, and the icy air coming through the windows, which are too high above her to look through them and watch the dance of the snow.

At least she is inside, sitting in front of the fire, with soft carmine red blankets and goblets of spiced wine within an arm’s reach, while her father and brother-in-law are out there in the woods, hunting and cursing the wind and the cold and the darkness that fell over the woods and barren fields too soon, too fast. She prays, briefly, that they will be back before nightfall, that the moon and the bright shine of the pure white snow will guide them home safely. The charms she has sewn into her father’s new shirt and into the cloak she had given William will keep them warm, at least a bit, but there is still a cold hard stone of worry in her stomach.

She can’t think on it too long, though, because Mary asks her to bring her another pillow, and to look after little Cathy, and if she could bring her something from the kitchens, and Anne is, once more, busy taking care of her older sister, whose second pregnancy isn’t as easy as the first one, despite the fabrics that she weaves and sews into her chemises, spreads over her when she’s sleeping – William stays away, now that she is pregnant again, so Anne spends the nights with her sister – and wraps her niece in, but Mary is tired and weak, not glowing like she was when she carried Cathy.

There are bags under her eyes, her skin is greyish instead of rosy, her brow wrinkled, her fingers thinner and paler than before. Anne’s hands are raw and hurt, her palms and fingertips covered in scars, but she will weave all night long if that means that her sister can sleep easier.

Her thoughts are interrupted by George, who enters silently, like a dark grey cat in his open velvet jerkin, his tousled curls almost as black as the night. “The child has stopped wailing.”, he murmurs, leaning against the door frame, his eyes, small with sleep, slowly scanning the room, only stopping on the crib and then, moments later, on the tray with the cakes and the mulled wine. “And you’re in here, making yourself comfortable, while your men are out there in the cold, hunting your dinner?”

“Oh no, so you are a ghost, frozen to death out there with the other men, and now here to haunt us.”, Anne mocks him, knowing fully well that he spent the last hours in his bed – most likely with their scullery maid, who is both pretty and sweet, instead of his wife, who retreated to her own chambers earlier after walking around the manor with the child in her arms for hours to try and calm her down – but she can’t keep an annoyed tone out of her voice. She’s worrying about Mary, her father and brother-in-law are still out there in bad weather, the child’s crying has made all of them thin-skinned, and now her idiot of a brother is getting on her nerves as well.

“If you could just be quiet, and try not to wake Cathy, we’d all be quite grateful.”, she hisses, and walks over to where her sister sits, to massage her shoulders and pet her golden hair. “What is it, that worries you so? You can tell us everything, sweetling, we are your siblings, hm?” Her slender fingers kneed the tense muscles in Mary’s shoulders, and tries, once again to think of all the things that could worry her sister.

Is the king losing interest in her? It wouldn’t be that bad, given that she doesn’t really love him. Or is the king angry at her, for some reason? Surely not, for her sister is the sweetest girl that has ever lived. And Mary’s husband William is quite nice, too, and she used to seem so happy when she moved to his manor, to be more than just the woman he’s married to.

Her sister’s sobs, the way her shoulders shake, stops Anne’s thoughts. “My- our little Cathy looks so much like him. She has Will’s eyes, and his mother’s hair, and she even laughs like him. But- but what if- what if this child isn’t Will’s?” Mary buries her face in her hands, and a cold net wraps itself around Anne’s heart. “What if this child has the eyes of a Tudor, or shares a nose with the Plantagenet princesses? Do you think that Will will hate me?”

♠️

“He’ll never hate her.”, Anne whispers later, much later, after the men have returned from their hunt, after Mary has gone to bed, her eyes dry and red rimmed, her shoulders no longer shaking. The hunters and the stench of blood and fear and ice clinging to their furs have taken over the hall, and the two of them have retreated to the warmth and the solitude of the kitchen, staying there even after everyone went to sleep. She loves the small room, the old wooden table on which the cook cuts the meat and vegetables for their meals, the dried herbs on the shelfs, the smell of fresh bread and the smoothness of the stone tiles, polished by the generations of servants that walked over them.

Now her brother sits in front of the grand hearth, dark curls, darker smirk, his slender hands stretched towards the dying fire to warm his fingers like a big cat sleeping in the summer sun, and shrugs. “Why do you think that, sweetling? If the child is a boy and looks like the king… it might be benefit us, if Mary gave the king a son, but then Will would have to raise an imposer as his heir, or he would have to openly admit that it wasn’t him who got his pretty little wife pregnant. He’d never get over the embarrassment she’d cause him. I’m just glad that my wife is faithful, even when I’m not.”

Shooting him a dirty look, Anne hops of the table she’d been sitting on, and strides over to the hearth, idly playing with the iron ladles and wooden spoons hanging on the wall above it. “You should be nicer to Jane, she’s such a sweet girl, and kind-hearted. At least give her a chance and treat her like your wife instead of a servant. And I know that Will won’t loathe Mary, even if the child does not look like him at all. He loves her, and – I’ll use my charms to make sure his affection stays strong.”

“Anne! You can’t!” His face pales, and he hisses the words, as if anyone was still awake, as if anyone could hear them, and jumps out of his chair to grab Anne’s shoulders and shake her a bit. “It’s too dangerous. If anyone finds out… haven’t you heard of what happened in France? Up in the mountains?” When she shakes her head, he starts pacing through the kitchen, around the table in the middle, dark with stains older than the two of them, wringing his hands.

“They burnt dozens of people, at least that’s what a friend of mine said. Searched their eyes for the devil’s mark, and your eyes…” He gestures towards her, and she raises a hand to her face, her fingertips brushing over the sensitive skin right beneath her eye – it’s the darkest brown she’s ever seen, darker than the night – and takes a shaky breath. Her mother’s eyes, so unlike the lush green one finds in the hearts of the deepest forests and in her father’s and siblings’ eyes.

“It happened in Navarre, this time. Before then it was in Val Camonica, and in Valais, spreading like the plague all over Europe, and it won’t stop at the channel.”, he whispers, and “I’m just worried, you know?”, and then, more passionate now “I told you months ago to be more careful. Nan, sweetest sister, this is no game. If anyone sees, if anyone talks… none of us can help you if you’re openly accused.”

**June 1526**

**Aldenham, Hertfordshire**

The air is soft and warm, and Anne smiles with her eyes closed, contently sitting in the dappled shadows of an apple tree, older than her, older than the manor behind them, its pure white blossoms slowly tumbling down on the breeze that caress her face gently.

Next to her, Harry is snoring quietly, the silky pale fabric of her skirts balled up in his fists, his beautiful eyes closed. She loves his eyes, the brilliant cerulean colour and the round shape and the way he blinks at her. His grandfather’s eyes. The eyes of a trueborn Carey.

They had all been so relieved when the dark ocean blue most new-borns shared had faded into a lighter and brighter shade, when the tufts of hair on his head had turned out to be of the same dark blonde colour as his father’s. He is no royal bastard, no threat to the king’s heir, and no stain on his parent’s marriage, as her sister had feared. Harry Carey is simply perfect the way he is, and Mary is finally happy again, after months upon months of worry and shadows eating away on her.

If only everyone were as blessed as her older sister, she thinks sorrowful, her slender fingers caressing the baby’s velvety skin, and looks over to where Will and George are playing a game of football, before her gaze wanders to Jane, who watches her husband from under the trees. Her face is a mask, but she can’t hide the longing and the sadness in her eyes and in the way she wraps her arms around her middle despite the warm weather.

Her sister-in-law is a lonely wife with a husband that prefers everyone’s company to hers, and something deep inside her knows that her friend simply wants a family. Jane is quiet and sweet and dreadfully shy, a simple beauty with smooth skin, high cheekbones and crystal blue eyes, a petite figure in plain dresses that match her pale brown hair, a girl with a habit of melting into the background, that misses her sisters terribly.

Anne doesn’t know whether she loves her brother or not, and she doesn’t ask, either. She knows that her sister-in-law craves a family, that she wants a child of her own, and that she is close to desperation, for she is still childless after more than one and a half years of marriage. She feels pity for her. Sighing, she pulls out her newest project, the one she started once Harry and Mary were well enough after the birth, and examines it once more.

She sewed it onto the back of a shawl, this small piece of sunshine and apple blossoms that she worked on for weeks now. It was easy enough to collect the scents of flowers and the milky colour of Jane’s skin and the sun glinting on the golden halo crowns of the Statues in the chapel. She even managed to catch some of the clouds of golden fog that floated into their shared room when Jane sat beneath the window and sang, her voice thin but sweet nevertheless.

It’s paler than moonlight and thinner than a flower petal, and she sewed it onto a narrow piece of silvery linen embroidered with a rain of white feathers and periwinkles. Standing up, she stretches and walks over to her good sister, smiling at her. “You look cold, sweetling.” Wrapping the shawl around her neck and taking the other woman’s gaunt hands in hers, she searches her gaze. The charm will work soon enough, and Jane, as observant as she is, won’t notice. She never notices the magic.

“Are you missing Maggie and Alice, again?”, Anne whispers, remembering all those nights they shared, all the hours they spent talking about sisters and friends they haven’t seen in what feels like forever, about girls they had to leave behind so long ago, all the times they stopped each other’s heart from bleeding too much, all the magic that couldn’t heal her sister-in-law’s home sickness.

“No, but… Mary has two children, and she’s so happy. And I - all the girls I know, they all have babies, or are expecting their first – and I’m here, with a husband that won’t touch me, or even sleep in my bed. I don’t need George’s love, his devotion or even his fidelity, but it would be nice if we could at least be friends, or maybe even a family, but he _resents me_.”

Silent tears run down her face, silent like the rest of her, and Anne’s heart hurts from seeing her friend like this. “No – no, darling, he doesn’t resent you. How could he? It’s just… he resents this marriage, but not you. He’s reckless, and a silly head, and he wants to spend his time doing stupid things and – he feels like a wife and children would keep him from doing that.

You know the angry housewife awaiting her drunken husband in the doorway, armed with a rolling pin, ready to bash his head in? That’s what he fears you’ll be like if he treats you like his wife. That’s why he treats you like an annoying little sister. Believe me, it was the same for me when I was younger and went on his nerves all the time. He ignored me, rolled his eyes at me, talked over my head as if I were a child.”

“Really? But- but what can I do? Can’t you help me with this, sister? You know so much more about men than I do…” Grinning now, Anne wipes the tear stains of her face. “ _Yes_. We’ll show him that having a wife isn’t the end of the world – that he can still have fun with his friends, without his wife nagging all the time.” And she has her magic still. The taste of dark and heavy wine, the upbeat rhythm of the fast songs the farmers played for their feasts, the heat of the bonfire they would light on Saint Peter’s, the sensual silk of the carmine red dress that she had given Jane for Christmas, that clung to her sister-in-law’s slim figure like a cloud of blood… George will finally _see_ his wife.

And there are other threads in the small leather pouch hidden under the bed she shares with Jane, the smell of a new-born child, taken only hours after Harry’s birth, the rustling of the hay and the sloshing sound of the kittens in the stables after they had been fed, the steam rising of a fresh loaf of bread ripen open by impatient hands, that she’ll weave into a fertility charm for her brother and Jane, as soon as he takes her to his bed again, as soon as he notices his wife.

**July 1526**

Her brother is making his way over to them, probably to whisk Jane away to a dark corner, like he did for the past few weeks, ever since they danced around the bonfire on St Peter’s and returned to the manor house in the wee hours of the morning, their hair tangled and their clothes stained green from where they slept in the wet grass.

Her sister’s affair with the king is over, her brother and her friend are drunk on love, and now it is her turn. Three long years have passed since Percy left her at the altar, and now it is time for her to find love, to marry, to have a family and children of her own, and maybe, only maybe, leave England behind for a new adventure.

There are several men present that she deems suitable, distant relatives of the king and heirs of great men, all of them noble and powerful enough to spark her interest, and witty enough to keep it for more than half a moment. She’s observed courtiers for weeks now, sorted the old and married and dull ones out, compared their strengths and flaws, found out who liked music, who had two mistresses at once, and who went to mass five times a day.

Now she’s narrowed it down to a handful of young men who are honest and gentle and like her kind of humour. Every one of them would make a good husband for her, she knows, but one of them – he makes her laugh, really laugh, until her belly hurts and tears run down her cheeks, and he makes her stomach flutter. It’s not love, she knows, at least _not yet_ , but it could be, in a few months’ time.

Tall and dangerous, she’d say if she had to describe Sebastiano Loredan, and devilishly handsome with his pitch-black curls and the stubble under those high cheekbones and his strong hands playing idly with the seam of his leather jerkin, dyed the same shade of midnight blue as his eyes. He’s a diplomat and working together with her father and brother, who told her that he’s unmarried, from a noble Venetian family, and that he won’t return to Italy for a year at least. She hopes that, when he leaves England, he’ll take her with him, as his wife.

It could be a new chapter in her life. She longs for France, for its warmth and serenity. Italy is even further down south, and Sebastiano is always so nonchalant when he talks about his home, that she can’t help but dream of laughing people in towns built of golden sandstone, of merchants selling brightly coloured velvet and exotic fruit on market places brimming with peasants, of artists sketching the friendly gargoyles and snakes carved onto walls and window sills.

The life he could give her could make her happy, and she would do everything to give him some happiness in return. Tonight, he’ll notice her, _really_ notice her, not like before when she was too busy with her sibling’s lives and couldn’t spare him a second glance.

Taking a deep breath and squeezing Jane’s hand once more, she straightens her back and lets her gaze sweep over the crowd, as if she were looking for him, even though she has already seen him. He’s leaning back against a stone pillar casually, with the collars of his doublet and shirt open and his hair so unruly that she wants to run her hands through it.

Her heart’s pounding too loud and too fast, fluttering against her rips like a wild bird in a cage, thumping to the rhythm of the song that’s floating through the grand hall, beating under the gazes of more than a dozen people staring at her – some in awe, some with envy clear and ugly in their eyes.

Meg, Nan and Margery are standing next to or behind her, a stark contrast with their fair hair and their dresses of pale blue silk and icy mint brocade and powdery pink taffeta, giving her the courage to look everyone straight in the eye, and Anne knows that she looks as divine and eerie as transcendentally bright sun rays bathing everything in gold against a backdrop of gloomy thunder heads creping over the meadows right before a summer storm.

Tonight, she’s the most beautiful lady at court, she’s Nyx with diamonds sewn onto her dress of black tulle, with stars dangling from her ears and adorning her fingers, with embroidered moths sitting on her hair and shoulders and sleeves. She is darkness, she is a goddess, she is the night.

When she enters the dancefloor, men flock around her, but she only has eyes for him – they look at each other the way a panther looks at his prey, straightforward, focused entirely on it – and he steps away from the man he was talking to, and pushes trough the crowd, towards her.

He was interested in her before, but now – now she’s the centre of his attention, of everyone’s attention. A small charm, made of the shine of a black cat’s fur, the scent of moon vines, the silvery light of the stars on a moonless night, the whispering sound of moths dancing around a candle, woven into small pieces of cloth that she pressed to her neck and her wrists, to help her enchant him. She’ll follow him into his dreams tonight, tomorrow he’ll ask her father if he can court her, and when the charm wears of in a few days’ time, he will really see and, hopefully, fall in love with her.

When they come to a halt before each other in the middle of the dance floor, when their fingers touch after a moment or an eternity, the air between them buzzes, laden with electricity. They move in synchronisation, float through the steps as if they were dancing on clouds, her feet barely touching the ground, the dance throws them against each other like waves crashing against cliffs, only to pull them apart after half a heartbeat.

Their eyes never leave each other’s gaze, his breath ghosts over neck, her fingers brush over his chest, he leans in to tell her something, a compliment on his lips – and another dancer grabs her hand and draws her into another figure.

She’s so caught up in the world Sebastiano and she created only moments ago that she doesn’t recognise the king at first, and when she does, she stumbles, but he catches her wrist and keeps her from falling. Her ears do not hear his words, her head does not know what he wants, but her feet keep dancing, at last, and so she can look down and gather her thoughts before she flashes him a bright smile, false enough to make her cheeks hurt.

Henry says something about never noticing her before, he compliments her beauty, he asks for her name, and she nods and smiles and answers with her thoughts far away, while her gaze flickers everywhere else, searching for Sebastiano, but Henry’s broad shoulders block her view.

♠️

When her father tells her that she has a visitor the next morning, it’s not her nonchalant Venetian diplomat, but the king.

♠️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Carey (*march 1526), son of Mary Boleyn and William Carey, nephew of Anne Boleyn  
> Moon vines (ipomoea alba) originally came from North and South America, but I decided to use them here for ~aesthetical reasons~.  
> [Navarre witch trials](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Navarre_witch_trials_\(1525-26\)), [Hever's grand hall](https://gio6v3sgme0lorck1bp74b12-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/hever-castle-rande-inner-hall-1020x599.jpg), [another pic of hever's grand hall](http://www.hogarthlighting.co.uk/images/customers/hever_castle_inner_hall.jpg)


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Henry’s courtship. The Tyndale book incident. I managed to stumble over this website on accident and found out that Henry and Anne called each other ‘My own darling’, ’sweetheart’, ’great king’ and ‘my dear majesty’ (see this [link](https://dating.lovetoknow.com/romantic-nicknames))

**♠️**

**September 1526**

**Hever Castle, Kent**

With a curse the thin fabric lands in the dusty dry rushes that cover the wooden floor of her chamber, and Anne stomps her foot – her foot, for god’s sake, like a grumpy five-year-old, like a spoiled little girl – and curses, in French, in English, in every language she knows swear words in. She does not yell, because she does not want to be too loud, does not want another reprimand of her father, who does not understand her, or more glances of the servants that look at her like she is a strange creature.

Her father knows her reasons, but he does not like the way she acts – she could be politer, sweeter, she mustn’t risk the king’s wrath – and neither her mother nor any other member of the household, be it her grandmother or the lowest stable lad, understand why she could reject the king himself, when this man, powerful and handsome as he is, wants to court her and even follows her to the countryside to be with her.

The maids sigh every time they talk about their romance, about how she fled court and the jealousy of the greying queen, and how he sought her out at her childhood home, flying there on wings made of love, ready to sweep her of her feet and whisk her away to a dreamy castle covered in roses, where they will hide away like the princes and their rescued maidens in fairy tales do, and Anne stands behind corners and doors and listens to them, to their mindless chatter and their japes and their dreams and the hopes they share.

_This is not a dream,_ she wants to scream, _this is not like hoping for a comely young farmer to declare his feeling to you and take you far away!_ This is the real world, and maybe none of them remembers the fate of her sister, the insults she endured with her gaze lowered, the problems her liaison with the king brought to her and her marriage.

This could cost her everything, her reputation, her prospects, her maidenhead. If he has her, he will ruin her and her future. No man wants the scraps another man left behind, even if that man was a king, and no man will marry her. She’ll become a spinster, living with her brother and sister-in-law, looking after their children without ever having one herself, or she’ll end up pregnant, alone, branded a whore, and her child will, if it is a son, be a constant threat to the princess Mary and any children the king might have in the future.

And the worst thing is that she can’t do anything. She cannot tell him to leave her alone, because he is too powerful and she cannot risk his wrath, not when her parents, her siblings, Mary’s children are involved, and no man will marry or even court her as long as the king himself is interested in her, because it would be too dangerous. She can only refuse the king and hope and pray that his passion will fade, that he will lose interest in her.

And she can weave. Charms for herself, to make her appear simple and dull and ordinary when he visits and she can’t hide fast enough or when he spots her in the meadows and woods and approaches her, and charms for him, stitched onto velvet and wrapped around the jewels she sends back to him.

But her thoughts are floating around her head, and her fingers are slower and number than usual, and somehow, the charm she just finished does not work. It just lays here in the rushes, shimmering dully, and she wants to scream. It always worked! She never knew this problem, she was always the one that managed even the most difficult charms, the one that could pick up a tangled mess and turn it into a smooth and silky mesh and make it work.

The netting stares at her from its place on the floor, sparkling in the low light, mocking her, and she wants to scream and weep and punch something. What should she do now? How can she get rid of this, of this tissue that will not simply dissolve, that won’t turn to dust, no matter how angrily she glances at it, that, if anyone saw it, could be her doom?

Should she try burning it, or throw it in the river, so that it may vanish in those dark waters? But it is made of magic, even if the charm does not work, so it may be a bad idea to set it on fire, so giving it to the flames is no option. And if she threw it into the Eden, then the king or anyone could happen upon her, see her with a magic cloth, and it would look like she tried to cause harm, they would accuse her of sorcery…

Taking a deep breath, Anne tries to calm herself. No one has seen anything yet, it is only a small piece, barely bigger than the palm of her hand, and she can hide it under her clothes for some time. Maybe she can fix it, find the mistake and loosen a few knots, rearrange some threads, and if it still doesn’t work then, _then_ she’ll try and get rid of it. She’ll bury it by the river, under rocks and earth, after midnight, when everyone’s sleeping.

Maybe the king will have lost his interest in her by then and leave her alone. She would be grateful if he did. His constant visits, not being able to leave the castle for fear of him spotting her, the nervous twitching of her limbs every time she hears footsteps approaching her or someone calling her name. The stress is eating away on her, and she does not know how long she can endure this.

His gaze wanders, she knows, and neither her sweet and cheery sister, nor his fierce and regal queen could keep his heart too long, so he’ll forget about her soon, or so she hopes. But until then she has to keep praying and singing and weaving.

**November 1529**

**Whitehall Palace**

Her fingers won’t stop shaking, and her breath comes harsh and too fast. Nan’s eyes are filled with fear and remorse, and she takes Anne’s hands in her own, trying to calm her friend down. “How could this happen? You promised to take care, promised not to show it to anyone – how did he get it? How, Nan, how?”, she whispers, throwing another glance over her shoulder, to the door that her friend smashed against the wall with the force of her entrance, and rushes over to peck into the corridor and close it once she is sure that no one is listening.

“Oh Anne, I never meant for this to happen! I was just reading it, and George saw it, and fooled around with it, you know how he can be, he’s always so careless, and he thought it would be fun to take it away from me and – and I don’t know how it fell into the cardinal’s hands after that. I’m – I’m so so sorry.”

The cardinal. The cardinal has her book, a book that is seen as heretic, a book that could be her doom. One wrong step, and she will fall from grace, her enemies will burn her on the stake for being a heretic-

She has to do something about it, anything. Nan is not helpful right now, she’s just clinging to her skirts like a frightened child, her tearstained face buried in Anne’s lap, her sobs drowned out by the heavy crimson velvet of her dress. Cursing her friend’s softness, she gently pushes her of herself, wipes away her tears and tells her to go and pray in the chapel, so that everyone sees how pious she is.

When Nan has left the room, she can breathe again, and think of a solution. It’s just heresy, nothing more. No one saw her charms or watched her work magic. It’s just a book, and if she speaks to the king before the cardinal can show it to him – maybe he’ll even give it back without telling Henry what the book is about – but no, Wolsey does not want to se her crowned, and he’ll try and use this evidence to bring her down.

Her only option is to talk to Henry, her only hope is that he is ready for the idea of a new world that she will present to him. She knows him good enough now to know that he’ll read it and think about it before he does something about it, and she trusts his devotion for her – he won’t just send her to die in the flames without a good reason.

She spent so many months preparing this, telling him how Wolsey sabotages his divorce, talking about how the pope does not see what is right and only wants to please the emperor, commenting on corruption of the church of Rome, she tried to gently nudge him in the right direction, and sewed little tissues woven of the crumbling leather her oldest books are bound in, and the high voices of the choir, mixed with the overwhelmingly strong scent of incense, that hovers just beneath the painted roofs of the chapels she prays in thrice a day and the richly dyed robes and golden crucifixes, encrusted with precious gems, that the priests that scrimmage at court wear.

It may be too soon now, but it’s her only chance. If Wolsey talks to the king first, if he finds more evidence against her, if he sets his spies on her and finds out about her magic, then she’ll burn, and not even Henry will help her, because who would help a woman that is not only a heretic, but also a witch?

♠️

“Your majesty? Henry?” Her voice failed her, and she bites her tongue, smooths her sweaty hands over her skirts, tries to breathe in and out, slowly and steadily. “Anne, my own darling.” He looks up from the letter he’s writing and smiles at her. His smile is just as broad and golden as he is, she notices, not for the first time.

“What brings you here? We only parted this morning, and you were busy with your friends, so I doubt you missed me already.” He grins and winks at her and strolls over to where she hovering by the door, to take her hands. “I miss every minute that we are apart from each other, my dear majesty.” She tries to smile back at him but fails miserably.

Sensing her fear, he pulls her close to him and into a tight embrace. “You’re trembling, sweet girl, and you seem so frightened. Has something happened? You know, you can tell me everything, do you not?” She breathes into the plush fabric of his jerkin, inhales the smell of leather and ink and man that clings to the velvet pressed against her cheek, and nods.

“Yes – there is another thing I miss, lover. A book, which I lent to a friend, found its way to cardinal Wolsey, and now he refuses to give it back. It is very dear to me, and I thought that maybe, you could ask him to return it me. I know that you could talk a duchess into dancing in the streets in rags if you wanted to, and you are the king, the mightiest man that ever walked this earth, so Wolsey has to do whatever you wish…”

“He will return it, I promise you. But tell me, Anne – it’s just a book, so why do you look so anxious? Why won’t Wolsey give it back, and why is it so important to you? What is this book about?” Taking a deep breath and praying to god that Henry’s love for her meant more to him than the lies his priests told him, she takes a step back. “It’s called _“The Obedience of a Christian Man”_ , and it was written by William Tyndale.”

“Tyndale?” Henry raises his brows, looking at her with a puzzled expression. “He’s a heretic! His books and pamphlets are banned here. How did you get in possession of this volume, and why would you want to read it?” Noticing that his face displays surprise and worry, that his voice remains gentle and low, that he does not seem to be mad at her, relieves some of her fears, and his questions lift the burden of her shoulders. He will listen to her, and when she explains herself, he’ll believe her and everything will be fine.

“Wolsey says that he’s a heretic, but he’s not always right, or is he? He spins his lies around you, like a spider, and he made you ban a book that you haven’t even read yet! How can you call a man a heretic if you never heard a single word he said? Some of the things he writes are true, I read them with my own eyes! You should read this book, and see for yourself, build an opinion of your own instead of trusting others blindly.” Her voice grows strong and passionate, his eyes are trained on her as she paces through his solar, and something changes in them.

“I’ll talk to Wolsey. He has some questions to answer.”, he repeats himself and strides out of the room, throwing a loud “I’ll give you the book once I’ve finished it!” over his shoulder at her as he leaves.

**June 1533**

**City of London**

The guards’ amours rattle, metal clashing against metal, too harsh and too loud for her ears, as they make their way down the street, their heavy boots grounding crumpled rose petals into the sand and in the clefts between the cobblestones and hate glints in the hundred and one eyes of the crowd, as they look up at her. Only a small number of townspeople watch her procession, and the few that line the streets are quiet, starring at her through the silence that hangs in the air, with crossed arms and disapproval etched into the lines on their faces.

None of these people wants her on the throne, they despise her for taking what was Catherine’s by right, for parading her swollen belly in the streets mere weeks after the king’s annulment, for forcing a new religion on them, they blame her for wet summers and bad harvests and the hunger that follows them.

And how can she blame them? Catherine is a lioness fighting tirelessly for her daughter’s birth right, she dressed in armour and descended on the Scottish forces like a warrior queen of old, like a Valkyrie, with her long hair flying behind her like a veil woven of gold and flames, defending her country, a woman so pious that she’d rather wear rags and beg in the streets than commit a sin.

They only see what they wish to see, they believe what they know. They think her a whore, a harlot that seduced their faithful, god-fearing king and lured him away from his lawful wife and the church of Rome. As if it had been her decision to make, as if all of this had been her idea!

She’s glad that he broke away from Rome, that her people no longer bow to the pope and his greedy priests, that protestants are safe here on English soil, that corrupt monasteries are to be dissolved, but she never wanted him to cast out his wife and daughter. She just wanted to change the world, to make things better, and instead she took everything from a woman she admires, her husband, her titles and position, even her daughter, who is no longer allowed to see her.

How did this happen? When did she become the villain of this story? She just wanted the best for everyone, and maybe a little bit of happiness for herself, and now they hate her, because she has ruined another woman’s life. And there is nothing she can do. Not this time. She can’t help Catherine and Mary with her magic, she cannot do anything for her people but talk to Henry and his ministers and anyone that might listen to her, now that she is queen.

The only things she can do with her magic are for herself, for no one can know about her charms, not with sharp eyes observing her every move. The people of London are calling her a heretic, a whore and a witch behind closed doors, ready to burn her on the stake, most of her maids and ladies are spying on her, reporting every word she says to their families, trying to find a way to either earn her favour or make her fall from grace.

Their whispers creep up her spine and crawl into her head, feasting on her doubts and her worries, and Anne wonders why anyone would ever want to be king. It’s hard enough for her, and she has her charms, she can hide behind them. They should be smaller than her palm, easy to hide and quick to make, but they only get bigger and bigger, it seems.

She likes to wrap them around her, these thick blankets made of several layers, shimmering in every shade of red and gold and steel she knows, woven of the warm light reflecting on the ruby encrusted rings that are too heavy for her slender fingers, of raging summer storms, of the softness of the honey coloured thread she uses to embroider her court dresses with, as if golden-haired lions with crimson beryl eyes would help her step into Catherine’s footsteps, so much bigger than her own.

Those are the lighter charms, but there are darker ones, too, made of the sound of chain mails clinking against steel plates, of blades scraping over their leather scabbards and daggers hidden beneath skirts of heavy brocade and dark silk, of vipers gliding through high grass and the poison that drips smirking lips, of skulls with gems for eyes that rest on beds of scarlet velvet and withered poppy blossoms, that grin at her with their bare teeth when she prays and that follow her into her dreams.

Maybe she’ll be nothing more than these saints, nothing but rotting bones, bound with pearls, draped in lush red velvet and gems glistening like fresh blood, with a golden crown atop her head instead of a halo of gilded rays. But right now she is still human, still alive, and her charms are her armour, they help her keep her head high and make her skin as smooth and cold and hard as a diamond.

And so she smiles at the people of London, bares her teeth and places her hands on her belly. She, too, can be a beast of prey – maybe not a lioness, but perhaps a she-wolf or a falcon.

♠️


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's first pregnancy and her time in the tower.

**♠️**

**July 1533** ****

**Greenwich Palace, London** ****

She is never alone. There are always people around her, ladies-in-waiting and maids-of-honour, servants and courtiers, her relatives and her husband. She wants to scream out of frustration, but a queen does not scream, especially not a pregnant one with her nerves scrubbed raw from worry.

It’s frustrating, to never be alone, to never be able to work. She needs a charm for the child that grows inside of her. Her son – _oh, please, god, let it be a son_ – is so small and frail, his kicks soft and gentle like a butterfly’s wings fluttering under her ribs, and she wants to give him the strength he will need, some sort of armour against the icy coldness of the outside world.

There are so many people that hate her now, ladies loyal to Catherine, men bound to the Catholic Church, nobles that despise her and her family for some reason or the other. Their whispers creep under her skin, hushed conversations about god’s wreath and the prophecy they all know. A queen of England will burn, and Anne does not want to be this queen.

Only a son will save her, a prince for England, an heir for Henry, even if the people do not love him like they loved Catherine’s new year prince. The king had set his dauntless Spanish queen with her blue blood and powerful relatives aside when she had only given him a girl – a clever and healthy girl at that – and setting the great-granddaughter of a mercer aside would be easier still. When she gives him the son he longed for she will be untouchable, and can do what she wants – like the duchess of Angoulême.

The greatest problem isn’t the constant presence of her ladies and servants, but the fact that she trusts none of them. If any of them found out about her skills and tells the king, then not even his flaming desire and his passionate love will save her, and she will burn as a witch, she is certain of it.

Mary seldomly visits her now, because Henry does not like to see his former mistress too often, even though Anne longs to have her sister with her, especially now, both Meg and Elizabeth are busy with their young children, and she no longer trusts Nan to keep a secret. Both Jane and George keep her company, but her brother would kill her if his sweet wife told him about his sister continuing her sorcery. He’s worrying enough already.

No, none of them will help her, and she doesn’t want them to. They all have so much to lose – her sister has two fatherless children, Meg’s baby is mere months old, Elizabeth and Bridget have children, too. She’ll have to do it without them, she decides, but she still needs someone to cover her.

Her aunt, lady Shelton, a bulldog in human form, who birthed ten healthy children, serves as her guard, and she needs a girl or a woman that keeps an eye on her while the old woman sleeps in her rocking chair, then she could weave a little bit. The only advice the bulky matron had given her, was to rest and to eat everything she craved, and to make sure that her orders were fulfilled, she had decided to spend as much time in the queen’s chambers as possible. If aunt Shelton had understood her, she would have told her her secret, but she didn’t trust her. Lady Shelton was, of course, loyal to her niece, who had made her family the most powerful people in the realm, but she wouldn’t remain loyal to a witch and sorceress.

The other woman in the room seemed to be little more than a naive girl, but the whole court knew that she had gotten pregnant without a ring or a husband and wondered which man had chosen a lass like her as his mistress, when there were so many ladies that were prettier and sweeter than her.

Anne had wondered, too, but she had realised soon enough that Margery, who seemed to be dull and plain, was as sharp as a fox and as wilful as a bull, not a pawn, but a player. She sat up in her bed and looked past the drapery. The younger woman’s broad, bland face never showed her thoughts, but right now her red-rimmed eyes and swollen nose betrayed her emotions.

Sensing the waves of sorrow that clung to her companion worried Anne. Margery had never allowed anyone to see her like this, she had been stoic when her father, Lord Horsman, had yelled at her, had feigned ignorance when the other maids and ladies had whispered about her lost virtue, had never talked about the man that had ruined her reputation. Something bigger must have happened to disturb her so.

“Margery? You seem upset… has something happened? You know, you can tell me everything.” Startled, Margery looked up from the tiny shirt she had been mending and that had, as Anne realised with growing concern, small wet stains on it. Her maid had been crying. Margery wasn’t supposed to cry, she was supposed to be strong, a firm rock in the maelstrom of the court.

“It’s- it’s Richard. He’s sick. Some sort of fever, and then he’s shivering again. I’m- I’m really worried.” Her brow was furrowed, her hands clawing into the fabric in her lap like it could keep her from drowning. “There’s nothing I can do for my boy. Nothing.” Margery’s words ended in a silent sob, her eyes became unfocused and wet, and she looked down, not wanting to let her mistress see her distress.

Anne just starred at her companion, and then a thought crossed her mind. Maybe… maybe Margery could be her salvation, as she could be Margery’s. Other girls could be bribed or blackmailed into silence, but they might still betray her for someone that paid or promised or threatened more, but Margery… she was witty and loyal, and if Anne saved little Richard’s life and showed her that her charms were not harmful, she would remain faithful to her mistress.

And so she stood up, walked over to were Margery sat by the fire, and took the other woman’s icy hands in her own. “You can do something about it. It’s… I can’t explain it. But… I can show you.” She smiled down at her and ran the tips of her slender fingers through the grime of the hearth.

♠️

There’s never enough time. She cannot weave spells that keep Henry from straying. She cannot save her unborn children. she cannot save herself.

**May 1536**

**Tower of London, London**

Her time in the tower is too long and too short. Endless days, filled with anxiety and worry about her loved ones, countless hours spent trying to find a solution, a salvation for them all. Anne weaves until her fingers bleed, until the cloths in her lap turn red and brown and tangled. Sighing, she puts her work down. There is nothing she could do. No way to help her brother and her friends. She is condemned to sit on this window sill and wait, wait for her brother’s death, for her own execution.

The grey dullness of the moist air, the muted noise of the Thames beneath her seat flow over her, drowning out her maids hushed conversations and her own feelings. Maybe she should go to bed. She hasn’t slept for days, and now… it doesn’t matter anymore what she does or doesn’t do. Nothing matters anymore. She will die.

A thought crosses her mind, unwanted and pushed down until now. What of Elizabeth, her sweetest daughter? She will be declared a bastard, stripped of her titles, everything will be taken from her – but what if her husband stops caring for her? What if he forgets about their daughter, the way he had banished all thoughts of the Lady Mary, who had been the pearl of his world far longer than her Elizabeth, from his mind? What if he punishes her for being her mother’s child? What if those Seymour’s…

She shakes her head. Worrying won’t do her any good. Picking up her work once more, she looks over to her maids. If she bribed them… begged them… or threatened them… maybe one of them would deliver a package to Margery. Her bloody hands, her raw fingertips, caress the cloth in her lap and she picks up the strings once more and begins working on her last charms.

♠️

The simple shawl she has woven was grey and brown and bloody, made of the fog that fills her chambers and the nervous twitching of her fingers, the moist wooden floors and the noise of the ravens outside her window. She has taken her maids gossip and the rattling of the keys of her prison, the smell of the bible they had given her, and the crimson shimmer of her petticoat.

Drops of blood have dropped onto it from her injured fingers, absorbed by the cloth. They have only darkened the fabric, and made it stiffer and thicker, and it sinks into her flesh slowly and painfully, making her skin smooth and cold like polished steel. She will walk to her death with every ounce of dignity and pride she possesses. Her skin, her hair, her gown are her armour, and she won’t let anyone see her desperation and her fear. She is a queen, and she will die like one.

♠️

She walks through the crowd, and suddenly, there are gleaming fingers clutching her wrist. Cool hands wipe away her tears, and she presses the bundle of linen and stardust and desperation she has hidden under her cloak into them. Margery slips away, dull and brown and invisible, like a mouse.

♠️

She uses all of the charms meant for Elizabeth at once. A shawl for wisdom, silver like the stars and dark blue like ink, that smells like old books and dust; a veil for grace and elegance, made of the shimmer of pink and lilac dresses, and the scent of fresh flowers and the breathless tune of a fiddle; a mesh of candle light and clouds of incense and the feeling of cold stone tiles to strengthen her faith.

Margery does it while the child sleeps, in the darkness of a carriage under a moonless sky, her heart full of fear. Her mistress has been a good woman, has saved her Richard’s life, and only ever done the work of god, but her daughter is a bastard now, the child of a witch, a whore and a faithless king, and if anyone finds them with veils made of magic… no. Elizabeth will never know her mother’s secret, will never know magic and witchcraft. It is for the best if the girl never believes in magic.

♠️

Darkness fills her heart, and she drags it out of it, the thick, twisted twines her husband had planted there. The blanket she weaves is the ugliest and crudest thing she has ever made, but this was never meant to be beautiful. This was meant to ruin. To destroy.

She weaves the stench of sickness, that lays over the tower and the Thames like a rag, the laughter of the ravens and crows on the merlons and the foul breath of her jailor into it. The screams of the prisoners, the blood in the courtyard, centuries old and brown between the stones, her brother’s desperate pleas for mercy, and the look on her friends’ faces, drained of all colour and hope, had joined them in her hands.

Anne sings songs of bloodied steel and cursed gold and stolen crowns and kings in castles made of skulls and bones, wraps her sweet voice around the black and brown thing in her lap as if it was a babe, not a knotty blanket born of hate and despair and the burning, thundering, boiling wrath of a mother separated from her child. And oh, it won’t kill him, at least not straight away. It is cruel, this charm, even crueller than the man it has been made for. Sickness and barrenness and pain it will give him. He will suffer, she vows to herself. He will suffer.

♠️

The last charm Anne Boleyn ever uses is an old one, among the first she ever wove. It is a mesh of all the cloths she ever made, a collection of every yarn she caught and bound. The silver dust of all the songs she sung and heard, the golden freckles of stories she no longer knows, the one hundred and more colours of all she got to see. Some parts are dark, jewelled tones, others are light and pale and almost transparent.

It is a blanket that could fit on her bed trice, and she wraps it around herself the night before her execution and remembers all that was and will never be again. Her lessons in France, with her beloved mentor Marguerite, filled with witty remarks and comments about politics and courtiers. Dancing in the gardens near the Loire with her friends, young and carefree. Hugging her friends – Nicole and Madelaine, and Charlotte, who died in childbed years ago – and saying goodbye to them.

She cries into her pillow and into the blanket, the memory of her return to England all those years ago a fresh and sharp pain in her guts, weighted down by the knowledge that she never saw them again, that she can never experience these wonderful days of her youth again.

The sweetness of Henry Percy’s love and the duller pain of his betrayal wash over her, and the laughter of her niece and nephew soothe her pain. Suddenly she is back in her childhood home, with George and his friends, Mary and her children, and she laughs with them over some jest, bathing in the golden sun rays of a late summer day.

Her days at court are darker, but her daughter is a bright spot within the gloomy, blood-soaked castle walls, and she is happy, or as happy as she can be there. When rough hands shake her awake, her blanket is gone – the work of years, of decades, of a whole _life_ , gone within mere moments.

♠️

She catches a last glimpse of the sky, bright blue and cloudless, like the one above the calm waters of the Loire, like the ones in her dreams. Then there is darkness.

♠️

The sky is blue and clear, the air filled with music and laughter, the grass beneath them lush green and soft – softer than it ought to be. Anne does not care. She is free, free to dance with her friends, with her brother and, after some years, her sister. She is young, and beautiful, and carefree, and she does not remember the king of England, but she remembers his daughter, and she can’t wait to see her again.

♠️

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from “Asgard and the Norse Heroes”, Katherine N. Boult  
> Anne Boleyn (*1505), maid-of-honour to Claude de France  
> Louise of Savoy (*1476), duchess of Angoulême, mother of king Francis I of France  
> Marguerite de Navarre (*1492), duchess of Alençon, older sister of king Francis I of France  
> Renée de France (*1510), younger sister of queen Claude of France  
> 


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